Here's another poem. This one was written a few years ago, when my first novel was on sub, garnering rejection after rejection from agents.
I thought the sweaty palms were bad
Until the butterflies went mad
And raced their engines in the pit
Of my ample stomach, then they quit.
I hoped they weren’t gone for good
For I that moment, understood
The ups and downs, excitement, nerves,
This fast ride through slow endless curves
Were all a part of what it takes
To be an author, goodness sakes.
The letter held with aching hope
Was from an agent. The envelope
Contained the answer that I sought,
But alas, I found that it was not.
Your work is fine but not for me,
I suggest you find an agency
That can deliver what you seek
Just stay away from me, you freak.
I stood there in the setting sun,
And thought about my work undone.
More novels, poems, and stories rage
To be born upon a printed page.
Tomorrow brings the mail once more
With a better batch of news, I’m sure.